


Observation

by Raven_Ehtar



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Canon Compliant, M/M, Other, POV Outsider, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Ehtar/pseuds/Raven_Ehtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is well known for his powers of observation, and Dr. John Watson has always been adept at seeing into a person's character. But they both miss clues for one of the most important features in their lives. Even Mycroft picks up on it before they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observation

**Author's Note:**

> Rather than coming from the new BBC series Sherlock, this was written with the original Doyle stories and the Granada series with Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in mind.

There were very few people in the world that could be said to know Mr. Sherlock Holmes, unofficial consulting detective of 221B Baker Street, London. There were a very great many who knew of him, of course. Ever since he had taken residence in the flat at Baker Street with the former army physician, John Watson, Holmes’ renown had grown beyond anything he would have expected, or possibly even wanted. Doubtless he enjoyed the increased number of calls on his particular skills, and he could hardly be called unappreciative of genuine admiration of those same skills of his that he took such pains to sharpen and keep in practice. But the danger lay in too much dross coming to him with that which was worth his time. He received more consultations, it was true, but the majority of what he received were cases barely worth a passing glance by a police constable, brought to him because he was well known, edging up to famous. Sherlock Holmes only took those problems that he found interesting, that could challenge his agile and incisive mind; all else he found trivial and a waste of his time, not to mention an irritation. The same held true for the kind of general admiration he received from the public. Holmes was vain to a certain degree, but he only valued praise if it came genuinely; that is to say, from those who had seen and could comprehend the depth of his intellect. From those who knew him by reputation only and yet still fawned over him, it was all so much noise. Ironically, it insulted his delicate sensibilities.

So while the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ was becoming a household name not only in London and in England as a whole, but spreading past her shores and reaching Europe and the Americas, very few human beings could be said to know the man. Even fewer than that could hope to even claim to know the mind of the man, the intelligence and the drives of the world’s single unofficial consulting detective. In truth, if one did not count the detective himself, then there were really only two: Doctor John Watson, who despite his close association with the man was still often puzzled, and Mycroft Holmes, his brother. 

These two could be said to have a fair idea of the inner workings of Sherlock Holmes, and each had their own particular advantages to that end, most notably their relative positions to the man and their own faculties. Dr. Watson was Holmes’ fellow lodger of many years and so knew his personal, day to day habits, and as a medical man could be said to know him in a much more clinical way than anyone else. And of course he acted as Holmes’ personal biographer and confidante, and one could not hope to be such a close and trusted companion without learning _something_ of the inner workings of your fellow man.

But then there was Mycroft. While he himself was a retiring gentleman of almost painful introversion and with a career of his own to attend to, he was Sherlock’s brother, and so held a sort of home field advantage, even over Dr. Watson. He had known Sherlock since he was a baby, had watched him grow up, had been present for the majority of his school years, and during his young life had played for him the role Watson did now as closest friend and confidante. To a certain degree he still was Sherlock’s confidante, though to a much lesser extent than he once had been or the good doctor was now, but he still heard of his life as it pertained to things beyond the criminal from time to time. And should his brother fail to divulge all that was taking place in his life at a given time, then Mycroft was not without resources of his own. His own powers of observation and deduction were even greater than those of Sherlock, he who made his living off of his wits and the results he could glean from their use. Should his little brother attempt to hide anything from him, he would find it an effort made in vain, for nothing escaped Mycroft’s sharp eye, especially nothing from so familiar a subject as his brother. 

Still, it did not stop him from trying, now and again, to conceal certain aspects of his life or his state of mind from him. It was a kind of vestigial rebellion that still lurked in his heart from his childhood years. And never did it become more apparent – or more stubborn – when it came to the subject of that second someone who knew Sherlock so well: Dr. John Watson.

It amused Mycroft no end at how transparent his dear baby brother could be at times when it came to ‘hidden’ motivations, when he had made it his life’s work to hunt out those very things from society’s less savory citizens. Perhaps to others he was unreadable; at best a confusing muddle, at worst a blank wall from which nothing could be read, but to him Sherlock was clear as print. One need only take the time to read, perhaps taking a little trouble to find what was between the lines to gather and recognize a full picture. 

And what a grand picture it was, was it not?

Of course Mycroft had long known of Dr. Watson. Apart from learning of him directly from his brother – recalcitrant as he might be on his personal life, he could not help but mention his new flat mate at least in passing – he learned of the good doctor and many of his qualities the same way the general public learned of Sherlock Holmes’: through the records of cases produced by the doctor himself. Mycroft had gathered quite a lot by way of impressions and inferences on Dr. Watson’s character, in addition to what he could divulge by his style of narrative and by what he chose to relate. Very little did he hear of the man from Sherlock, save the occasional word on his health or such like, and Mycroft was tactful enough not to inquire where he could see questions would be unwelcome. He supposed that, eventually, he would have to make that small intrusion into his brother’s business, if only for formality’s sake, but as it turned out it was unnecessary. One day, all without letting him know, of course, his over energetic brother paid him a visit at his club, bringing his flat mate along with him. 

It was rather unfair of Sherlock to have brought his friend without any kind of warning, but it was very like him, as well. And upon observing the scene as it unfolded, it became all the more apparent _why_ Sherlock had chosen to do so in this instance. It was altogether unexpected, Mycroft was willing to admit, and not lacking in interest; he would have willingly continued the most fascinating interaction, but fate would have it another way. Circumstances became such that Sherlock became embroiled in a case for one of his neighbors, a Greek interpreter, and his observations of the doctor in person had to be cut short.

Mycroft did not expect to see the good doctor again for some time after that initial meeting. There would be very little reason for him to come on his own, and with the awkwardness inherent in paying a visit at his club made it even less probable. The idea of Sherlock making a repeat of the visit was downright laughable. However, his brother did make a visit on his own not long after the case of his neighbor had been cleared up, and Mycroft took the opportunity to bring the subject up. The way was clear, after all, and Mycroft was not without his own share of energy when he took the trouble of using it. 

It was a foggy day the next time Sherlock troubled to visit, which was typical of London, especially on a chill October evening. They each sat beside Mycroft’s large windows that overlooked the street, the best place to observe the human condition, as he always held, though today the sport was disappointingly sparse. No one wanted to be out in such beastly weather, and if travel could at all be avoided for the comforts of one’s own home and comparatively clean air, no one stirred a foot beyond their doorsteps. Which he supposed made Sherlock’s visit all the more impressive, for he had come to the Diogenes Club with the sole purpose of seeing him. No work was awaiting him further along the road, nor was he seeking a little advice as he sometimes did. He sat, comfortable as you please, his knees drawn up close to his chest as he sat in a wooden stool beside the window, puffing on one of his cigarettes as though he hadn’t a care in the world and this was all the most natural of things, though it was almost out of memory since the last time Sherlock had paid a purely casual visit.

Mycroft smiled to himself as he studied his brother’s face, which was soft and heavy lidded as he stared into the fog wreathed streets, a thread of smoke curling up from his lips. His brother really was so readable at times.

“So, Sherlock,” he drawled, when a long hour had gone by without a word spoken by either of them. “How go your cases, then?”

Sherlock’s face seemed to twitch ever so slightly, possibly rousing himself from a deep line of thought. “Well enough, Mycroft, well enough. Though I really do think that the criminal class is becoming extremely indolent,” he said with a small huff. “It’s getting so one doesn’t know why one bothers. I continually hone my skills, and yet those they are meant to be used against only become sloppier, less imaginative as time passes. Soon I will be a near perfect reasoning system and all the criminals will have given up in pure apathy!”

Mycroft raised his brows at his brother’s passionate outburst. Such was his way, his _modus operandi_ , but it was still a little unexpected. Normally such vehemence took more time to run up to than that. “Indeed? A most lamentable, even pitiable circumstance, little brother.”

Sherlock snorted, and took a long puff of his cigarette, still staring out at the fog and streets with heavy eyes, the muscles along his jaw tight. It was a look Mycroft recognized from as far back as his primary school days. After a moment or two he said, his voice full of defeat and melodrama, “I believe it might just as well be if I were to retire now, while my career can still be viewed as an accomplishment, rather than to drag it out to some slow, malingering death.”

“Oh, come now, Sherlock, things are not quite so bad as that. This is just one of your moods. You know you always get them. There will always be criminals and crime on which you may whet your teeth and your brain, one only has to have the patience to wait for the opportunity to arise.”

Sherlock snorted again, but said nothing, attention still fixed on the rolling fog.

“Besides,” Mycroft said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I believe your biographer might have something to say should you attempt to hang your hat now. Think of him, if nothing else, before you give up hope entirely.”

Something passed over the younger Holmes’ face at the mention of Watson, even so an oblique a fashion. A kind of tenseness that was immediately and deliberately smoothed away again. He remained silent, however, and Mycroft chuckled internally at this little display of emotion in his oh so analytical sibling. 

“I must admit, Sherlock, that I was quite impressed with him,” Mycroft went on cheerfully, watching the other for reactions to what he was saying. “Not so purely logical a man as one might expect of a close companion of yours, but quite rational and clear headed. And a little extra something that I think will do you good; he seems very compassionate. While it’s never suited you as a characteristic, I think it will be just as well for you to be in contact with the sentiment as much as possible. Yes, I quite approve of him.” He paused, taking in the small quirk that had come to Sherlock’s lips before continuing. “I can also see why it is you delayed so long in bringing him round to meet me, dearest brother.”

At last Sherlock looked round from the window and leveled his dark, appraising eye upon Mycroft, the small warmth that had stolen over his hawkish features disappearing in an instant. “Oh? And after such a promising beginning to your impressions. Pray, what is it that you find to object to in my fellow lodger?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Calm yourself, Sherlock. I mean no criticism of the good doctor. I mean only that I can understand, on seeing the two of you in close quarters, why it was you had put off introducing him to me.”

“It was not so long—“ Sherlock began.

“Seven years, Sherlock, since you first became acquainted with the gentleman.”

Sherlock paused, his look becoming distant and thoughtful. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, I suppose it has been. How time flies when one’s attentions are not on the sweep of a clock’s arms.” He shook himself a little, refocused on Mycroft. “But I still fail to see your meaning, Mycroft. What possible reason could I have to delay a meeting between yourself and Watson? For that matter, what pressing reason could I have to introduce you in the first place? It is not a thing of ironclad social conventions, introducing family to those with whom one shares rent.”

Mycroft shook his head, chuckling and leaning back in his chair. “Sherlock, you know very well why you might feel compelled to make our acquaintances, and at the same time be hesitant when it came time to make the move. Let us not both be insulted by your protestations.”

There was a stubborn look on Sherlock’s face. He flicked away some ash into a tray carelessly. “For the sake of argument, let us assume that I really do have no idea to what you are referring, Mycroft. What was it you observed upon my bringing Watson here to meet you? What did you deduce that makes you so sure you know my motivations?”

For a moment Mycroft studied his brother. He had believed when Sherlock first came up the stairs that he knew his mind, his reasons, obvious and obscure, for coming. But Sherlock’s behavior, his reactions to certain questions, they all contradicted each other, one moment agreeing with his hypothesis, another disapproving it. With a mental shake he waved the doubts away. All would become clear if he were patient.

“Well, to begin with, my observations began long before you brought Dr. Watson to the Club, Sherlock. To be perfectly fair, I began my observations of the fellow even before his first published work became available to the general public. No, no, I did no spying. Good grief, I would think you would know my energy for such things better than that. No, my analysis of the doctor began first with the close observation of another subject that was, although not directly related, greatly influenced by him: you.”

Sherlock raised his brows at this announcement, but he offered no protest or inquiry, so Mycroft continued on.

“Of course you told me that you had obtained a co-lodger for the rooms at Baker Street, but even without your confirming the fact with your own words I knew there was something new in your life, something that was having a positive effect.

“You’ve always been introverted, Sherlock. All your life your best company has been your own. It’s nothing against your character, just how you have always been. It’s what had always worked the best for you. And for me, in point of fact. I first began to suspect that there was something new to your personal sphere when this became slightly less pronounced. No, you never sought out company, but it seemed that you did not seem so violently opposed to human contact as you had been. It was very curious, and I soon came to the conclusion that to achieve this effect you must have been experiencing human interaction of some kind that was outside the realm of your work – for no amount of speaking to clients or the police force had ever produced this reaction before – and that the exercise was pleasurable, as it made you more personable, not more withdrawn.

“It also seemed that you were becoming, and I apologize for the use of an imprecise descriptor, Sherlock, but you seemed to be becoming _happier_. You were more relaxed than before, you smiled more often. Quite extraordinary. Even during those times when you did not have your little problems to occupy your mind, you did not seem so deep into the doldrums as you have been in the past. I have been keeping track of your descents for a while, Sherlock, and always they were becoming deeper, longer, and requiring more effort to rise out of again. It was always with dread that I anticipated your next slack time for cases, and what it would mean for your mood. But as the rest of your moods had improved, so did this one. Still unpleasant, surely, but the progression from one depth to a deeper one with each episode ceased. I can tell you, I was more than pleased about that.

“So it was that I knew you must have found not only a flat mate,” Mycroft said with certain flair, “a flat mate, moreover, who could tolerate your habits and odd hours, but you had also found something a good deal more rare. You had found a friend.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a lightning quick smile, amused to hear outside observations of himself. “And I assume,” he said drily, “that there were a multitude of little physical clues and personal insights from which you were able to either strengthen or confirm many of these gatherings?”

“As well as draw further conclusions, yes,” he returned with a grin of his own.

“Well, well. I am quite disappointed to learn just how obvious I am to one who is not so blind as the general public. What else, dear brother, have you gleaned before clapping eyes on the doctor himself?”

“Well, there was, eventually, _his_ side of the story that could be taken into account.”

“Ah. You mean those fanciful tales that he likes to abuse the masses with.” Though Sherlock tried his best to sound derisive, Mycroft nonetheless caught a certain tone in his voice that suggested a much deeper fondness for ‘those fanciful tales’ than his words alone would suggest. 

“Yes. Those,” Mycroft agreed with a raised brow. “You know that there is much to be deduced from them, even if you do not quite agree with his style? There is much that can be read in a man by how he uses the language, in how he chooses to describe his fellow man, all quite apart from the actual _events_ that he is reporting. Such was my aim when I took it upon myself to read the accounts of my younger brother that were becoming so popular wherever I went.”

Sherlock had become very still and neutral as Mycroft spoke. They were coming to the crux of the whole issue, and Mycroft knew that now was a time to tread lightly. “And what was it that you found, Mycroft?”

“From what I read, it was obvious that there was indeed a deep friendship forming between the two of you. That you allowed such a publication at all was enough indication of that, but with almost every word Dr. Watson wrote he confirmed that. He admired you, that was plain as plain. Of course he was impressed by your skills, but he admired you even more. But at the same time, he was not intimidated by you. I knew your temperament well enough to know what effect that would have on you, Sherlock, and again, each new publication was a confirmation. It was all quite interesting to observe, both from this position and in seeing you whenever you chose to pay call.”

The two brothers stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock’s neutral expression taking on a somewhat mournful cast, and Mycroft’s beginning to mirror it in sympathy. There was no doubt where the conversation was going. There was some history in this direction, but there was nothing for it now that the journey had begun but to finish it.

“I suspected, Sherlock, that your relationship with the doctor ran deeply. More so than any other you had experienced for years, and I was pleased for you. I thought that it would do you good to have that in your life again.” He sighed, rubbed one of his big, square hands over his whiskered face. “It wasn’t until I met him in person that I realized that I was wrong.”

Sherlock blinked at him, but otherwise did not move, his face was immobile. “What do you mean by that?”

“Are you really so blind to yourself, brother, or do you merely want to hear someone say it to you?” he asked sadly, then waved away any coming response. “I doubt that anyone could fail to see the fondness you hold for each other, Sherlock. It’s as easy to see as one’s hand before one’s face. But I wonder if there is anyone who would see just _how_ deeply it goes. For you, Sherlock, the signs of affection are so glaring I’m surprised I can’t make out Baker Street from this very window. I have only seen you look so once before, and that was when you were still at school…”

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently.

“And as for the doctor… well. To doubt that he felt much the same would be an insult to him and a waste of one’s faculties.”

Far from lightening Sherlock’s expression as he thought that observation might do, his face became even more shuttered than before. Mycroft suspected that he was struggling to keep it from collapsing completely, and wondered what it was he had missed. What was it that was troubling his brother so very deeply, that even an observation and reassurance did nothing?

“Do you really think,” he said, shocking Mycroft with the level of anguish in his tone, “that Watson could possibly hold the same affection for me as I do for him?”

There was a barb there, the nub of all that was troubling his brother. It skirted dangerously close to an old grievance, an old heartbreak that had never fully healed. No doubt there was a touch of that coloring this case, but Sherlock was practical enough to not let past take over the present. “Of course,” he said quietly. “A mole could see it, you silly fool. The only reason you do not is because you are too near to it yourself.”

“I think, perhaps, that it is you who are mistaken, and it is because you allow yourself to hope. In this case you dream of happy endings, rather than realism.”

“What reason have you to suppose that Watson does not return your affection, much less would oppose it?”

The fog outside was treated to a return of Sherlock’s dark stare. “Let us say that should I decide to retire tomorrow, I doubt if he would be so disappointed as you suppose. In fact, I doubt if he would notice, at least not immediately.”

“Why on earth—“

“Watson is engaged to be married, Mycroft.”

For a moment the meaning of the words did not register. They were spoken so flatly, without inflection or tone or passion, that for an instant Mycroft wondered if he had even heard it or if he had simply imagined it. Sherlock’s face certainly betrayed nothing of the feeling that would have been expected to accompany such a statement; it was nearly as blank as the fog he stared at. It only took a second’s consideration for Mycroft to realize that for that very reason, blankness was worse than any amount of emotion.

“Engaged?” he repeated, feeling slow and stupid and suddenly inadequate to his brother’s needs. “Engaged, engaged to whom?”

“To a Miss Mary Morstan,” he replied without fire. His cigarette had long since been consumed to the filter and he now sat with his arms wrapped about his long, folded legs. He looked much, as he sat so, as he had looked as a boy, staring out the window mournfully. It made an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness rise up in Mycroft. “A client with a most interesting case. I’m afraid that the two of them took a very strong, very immediate liking to one another while on the case. Nearly the moment it was all through and solved,” now a bitter, painful smile twisted Sherlock’s mouth like a mouth full of lemons, “Watson was proposing to her. And she accepted. They have a house already selected, and Watson has all of his belongings packed.”

“As quickly as that?”

“Indeed,” this with an unmistakable twist of malice. “And as you said, Mycroft, Dr. Watson and I lived together at Baker Street for seven years. Seven years of working together, sharing meals, sharing worries, sharing danger on cases; seven years to build up my courage to bring him here to meet you. I was afraid of what all you might perceive, do you know? And, mere months after this pinnacle of trust and domestic feeling, he finds a wife. He leaves Baker Street forever, and I am left to myself. As I had been when he found me.”

Mycroft was quiet for some time, considering. It was difficult to imagine the doctor leaving Baker Street as Sherlock was saying he would. Not because he had come to think of the good doctor as a fixture at 221B, which he almost had, but because of what he had observed. From what he had seen of Sherlock over the last few years, how much he had improved when it came to his mood in general – as much as it tended to vary, there was still a significant improvement – and in his interactions with other human beings. It seemed quite impossible that anyone, much less one who lived with the man, could fail to observe the same. And from what he knew of Watson, learned from reading his chronicling of his brother’s cases, he was a caring, almost sentimental man. He cared for Sherlock, was concerned for his health both as a medical man and his friend. Surely he would know what would be left for the analytical man should he leave, what kinds of habits he would fall back into when there was no one to act as a buffer between him and the haziness of inactivity. Surely Watson could foresee such an outcome. And Mycroft knew, from the little he had seen of Watson and Sherlock together, that if the doctor could foresee the outcome, then he would do whatever he could to prevent it.

“I find it hard to believe, Sherlock.” Mycroft said slowly, unsure what he _could_ say that could comfort his younger brother in this crisis. “Dr. Watson does not seem the kind of man to wantonly abandon a friend…”

“What would you have of him, Mycroft?” Sherlock interjected, hard eyes still looking out the window, his voice nearly as gray as the view before him. “He is his own man, fully capable of making his own choices. Though it is hardly choice where one’s heart chooses to settle. I have no claim on him, brother, none at all save as a friend and fellow lodger. It is Miss Morstan that has snatched up his heart.” Sherlock’s face, if anything, seemed to become even more grave. “And what can a man do but follow where his heart leads him?”

* * *

It was several years later before the subject of the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson was brought up again in Mycroft’s presence. In the intervening time he had found it best to let it rest. Sherlock was even more private, one might even say closed off, when it came to his personal life than he ever was, and Mycroft well knew that any attempt to bring up the doctor in anything more than a cursory fashion would be met coldly in the best of outcomes, and open hostility in the worst. 

He still kept careful watch over them, in his own way, and as the years passed he was left with mixed feelings. If he were just to read those writings that the doctor published, then he would have very little cause for concern. From those writings Mycroft gathered that though Watson had married and left the rooms at Baker Street to Sherlock, the two men were far from strangers. The doctor still joined the detective in his cases, sometimes at very short notice, and in general it was difficult to see the difference between now and when they had shared an address. 

On the other hand, there was what he saw in his brother. Anyone else would likely not have noted the difference. After all, Sherlock always was a man dedicated to his work, pursuing the next case, the next problem, the next mental exercise with a single mindedness that bordered on the committable. That remained as it ever was. Sherlock still put his work at the very top of his priority list, as he ever did, but now there was something underlying it that went beyond the need to keep his highly specialized brain occupied. There was something else driving the man straight from one set of problems to the next, and Mycroft suspected he knew exactly what that something was. It made Sherlock’s face tense, gave his eyes an unhealthy shine from time to time, a feverish look of a man desperately trying to escape some unseen foe, or pursuing some forbidden desire. It was difficult to witness, knowing the cause of it, and all too aware of what it was leading to in Sherlock’s darkest moments, with no kind doctor to steady his hand, and to also know that there was naught for him to do about it. 

So it was that it wasn’t until Sherlock brought up the subject that it was discussed at all, and then at a time when Mycroft did not expect it.

Sherlock Holmes, even without the benefit of a chronicler bringing his name into the public consciousness, was well enough known in select circles. Scotland Yard, for one, knew him quite well, though opinion on him in that quarter was rather mixed, all depending on the personality and level of awareness of the individual man. In the criminal world, as well, the name ‘Holmes’ had gained a certain notoriety. When his name was used in those low places, it brought a level of trepidation to the hearts of those who intended evil. And though Sherlock held no sympathy for any who put themselves so firmly on the wrong side of the law, his sights gradually came to narrow on a single point within the seedy underbelly of London. All his focus and his powers he brought to bear on one person whom he felt to be at the center of a vast web, and it was only in that one heart he wished to strike fear. 

Professor James Moriarty became Sherlock’s particular obsession, the one evildoer he believed that, should he succeed in capturing, would lead to London’s becoming a safer place. Mycroft did not think it too large a leap of reasoning to think that his brother saw the Professor as his personal enemy, the ultimate challenge to his skills, beyond which he could see nothing. The rest of the world, however, saw the Professor as a very respectable personage, and Sherlock’s obsession, if they were aware of it, was seen as a man tilting at windmills.

It was during those months when Sherlock believed that he was closing in on the Professor, drawing together a complex web of traps and counters, when he came to visit at the Diogenes Club more often than was usual. Sherlock was not one who naturally sought out companionship, but during such a dangerous, critical time in his career and his life even he felt the need for support. Someone to lean on as well as to share in his victories.

During such a visit, detailing on the of the more hazardous plans he had in place to capture his villain, Sherlock suddenly and unexpectedly broke on the subject of his former flat mate and how he might have handled the current state of affairs. 

It was somewhat less than complimentary.

“It is on occasions like this that I believe that his leaving Baker Street is more to my benefit than the reverse,” he said, pacing the floor of Mycroft’s private rooms in the familiar, nervous fashion he had whenever he was thinking quickly or preparing for action. “Were he on hand he would no doubt try to help, for he is a staunch companion, but he would be a hindrance in such a complex web as this!” The younger Holmes stopped in his pacing abruptly and turned to face Mycroft. His eyes were bright, and two patches of color stained his high cheeks, the surest sign of overexcitement. 

“This is a highlight, _the_ highlight of my professional career, Mycroft. It is just as well Watson is preoccupied about his own business, as I doubt he would have the grit to stick with it to the end.”

Mycroft remained silent a moment, studying his brother. He did not need any particular power of observation and deduction to see that Sherlock was running on his nerves and very little else. It was his habit to forgo food of any kind when working on difficult cases, and it seemed this was such case. There was little to suggest he had eaten in the last few days, or slept more than an hour or two, taken as handfuls of minutes at a time. But Mycroft had seen him in such states before, and although they were disturbing to witness, and upsetting to his own digestion as a matter of sympathy, they rarely if ever caused him palpable alarm. 

He was alarmed now. 

Mycroft knew the scoundrel Moriarty, so called gentleman and Professor. He, as well as Sherlock, knew how deviously dangerous the man was. In some ways he was in a better position to see the danger than Sherlock, as he could see on a broader scale how the man operated, how he manipulated those around him, and how those fools who saw only the ‘Professor’ were completely taken in by the charade. Mycroft knew what kind of dangerous line his brother was treading, and this sort of behavior, this recklessness in his thoughts, disturbed Mycroft beyond measure when it came to Sherlock’s safety. 

“I think perhaps you underestimate him, Sherlock,” he said quietly, carefully as he fidgeted with his glass. “His strength, for example. The profession of a physician is not one suited to those with weak nerves, and an army doctor, with its own set of horrors even less so. It requires courage as well as nerve.” Sherlock had walked to his familiar post beside the window, looking pained and annoyed. Mycroft continued when he did not reply at once. “I think that his tenacity, and in particular his loyalty to you, will quite take you by surprise when the day comes to put it to the test.”

A quick smile flashed over Sherlock’s sharp features, but it was rueful. “Perhaps that it so. Watson has been known to surprise me in the past. But what _I_ think is that should he ever be made aware of the game I am playing now, his first inclination would be to step back and allow the ‘authorities’ to handle the danger. More especially if your own surmise is correct, in fact, as he would want to protect his friends. No, Mycroft,” he said with a shake of his shoulders, “better I should face this alone. I would not drag a beloved friend and comrade into it. Not if I truly valued and loved them.”

And at that Mycroft let the matter rest. Sherlock would speak no more of Dr. John Watson, only concerning himself with his plans for Moriarty and his gang and what part, if any, Mycroft was to play. But although Sherlock may say he intended to keep the good doctor clear of this entanglement, time would tell if that would hold true or if the two would face this pinnacle of Sherlock’s career together, as they had so many others before.

* * *

Over the course of Mycroft’s life, he had given some serious consideration to a number of hypothetical situations that may never come to pass, but should they do so where it would be as well to have some idea how he would conduct himself. Such hypothetical situations ranged from forgetting his umbrella on a day that broke out in storms to the country descending into war with any number of nations. Such mental exercises kept him occupied when he had nothing more pressing taking place. By and large the various scenarios never came to pass, or at least had yet to, but once in a while one would crop up and he would be grateful he had given the matter some preemptive thought. 

He had hoped the death of his brother would not be one of them. 

Mycroft had given the unpleasant scenario its due consideration, of course. Sherlock’s profession, while it should have been safe enough as a ‘consulting’ detective, had its fair share of dangers, and Sherlock seemed to only thrive more as those dangers increased, leading to his disturbing habit of rushing into situations that would have others taking a step back. Never more so obviously as with the case of Jim Moriarty and his distasteful network of scoundrels. When Mycroft became aware, long before Sherlock began to draw the net around the man, that he had set his sights on that particular quarry, the odds of his little brother going ahead of him to the great beyond increased by an unsettling margin. Moriarty was a dangerous foe, and Sherlock altogether too sharp an adversary for him to ignore. 

When the news that Sherlock had met his death at Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, Mycroft had met it coldly, not unduly surprised at the turn the case had taken. He was not unmoved, but he did not reveal his grief to any. Such shows of emotion were best kept private, and he contained himself until he was properly closeted in his rooms. What feeling he did allow to be seen was the gladness he felt on hearing that the infamous Professor Moriarty had had the final decency to follow Sherlock in death, ridding the world of his particular stain. 

While the world reeled in shock over the sudden loss of the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft slowly became accustomed to the idea of his younger brother being dead, if the reality had yet to truly come home to him. Dr. Watson returned to London and paid him a brief visit, and the elder Holmes could plainly see that the reality had struck with the good doctor, and struck him deeply. There was a hollowness in his eyes and air of distraction that was wholly unlike him, making his visit a strange one, even by their standards of such things. The doctor was well into his grief, and it seemed it would be some considerable time before he fully recovered, if ever. 

Mycroft, for all of his previous considerations of Sherlock dying as a real possibility, was having difficulty in coming to terms with it as a fact. Since first receiving the news it had felt like nothing more than another one of his hypothetical scenarios, vividly being thought through. 

It still came as something of a shock, however, when he received a letter from Sherlock approximately two weeks after his fall. 

His first thought was that it was a letter written long before its arrival, before his brother’s death, that had been delayed in the international post proceedings. Upon opening and observing the date, and reading the contents which claimed, among other things, that Sherlock was in fact alive, Mycroft thought it was a hoax. A prank of incredibly cruel and poor taste. 

But the handwriting was undoubtedly his brother’s, the distinctive flow of letters too perfect to be a forgery, and details on the brothers’ young lives were provided that no one else could know. The letter _was_ from Sherlock. He had survived the confrontation with Moriarty, and was in hiding to escape the revenge of the Professor’s peers. The only reasons he took the risk of writing to him was to reassure him, a secondary consideration, and to secure a means of surviving while he was forced to live as a dead man, the higher priority. While he was effectively on the run on the continent, Sherlock would have no way of earning a living save by occasional odd jobs as he passed from one town to the next. It might be enough to keep him in bread, but lodging would be another matter, and the funds needed to keep him on the move would be impossible to come by with such a lifestyle. 

This was where Mycroft came to the rescue in this case. By various complicated channels, he sent the required monies to Sherlock so it would be impossible for anyone watching to know who the funds were intended for. Any of those unsavory fellows who thought they might track down Sherlock by keeping watch on his elder brother’s movements would find the game not so easily won as that. 

And while he made sure of his brother’s ability to keep on the move, he also set about securing a place for him when he was finally able to ‘come back to life’ and return to London. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady at 221B Baker Street, was quite willing to preserve Sherlock’s rooms as they were rather than clearing them out and renting them to a new lodger when Mycroft offered to keep up on the rent. Mrs. Hudson was really a very sweet, sentimental woman, and had been fond of Sherlock – which somewhat mystified Mycroft – and would have been willing enough to keep 221B as it was for less than full rent if Mycroft hadn’t insisted otherwise. If she had been less distracted by her grief and known Mycroft better – which was to say, at all – then she might have seen how out of character the request was for him. Mycroft loved his brother, but preserving his rooms when there was no real chance of his returning to them was a level of sentimentality he was not prone to. 

These were the two major arrangements that had to be seen to when it was revealed Sherlock was alive. There were more, relatively minor considerations, and they were all seen to with a level of secrecy that would have made Sherlock proud. Mycroft himself was rather pleased with how the whole affair was shaping up. Despite his habit of playing out various situations and planning for them, this one had never really occurred to him. He realized that it should have, given Sherlock’s profession and tendency to be overly dramatic, but even so everything was being handled remarkably well.

The one point in the whole affair that Mycroft felt could be handled better was where it concerned John Watson. 

Of all the people the Mycroft might have felt moved to enlighten as to Sherlock’s condition, John Watson was far and away the one he would have most wanted to tell. However, Sherlock’s letter had included some very specific instructions when it came to the knowledge of his survival, the basic upshot being that none should know of it save Mycroft himself. He was to enlighten no one, ‘including and perhaps most especially Dr. Watson.’ Even without that admonishment from his little brother, Mycroft could see the logic in that course of action. Watson, like Mrs. Hudson, was a sentimental soul, and even knowing the importance of keeping Sherlock’s survival a secret, there was a more than reasonable chance that he would do something that would alert Sherlock’s enemies. It was safer for all of them, including the doctor, if he remained in the dark. 

But that did not mean it was easy, to not tell Watson that his dearest friend was alive. In fact as time passed it only became more difficult, as Mycroft watched the doctor and the toll grief was taking on him, how it affected his marriage and his practice. To have the one piece of information that could give him peace of mind and yet be unable to pass it on was a kind of torture he would be sure to repay his brother for when he had the chance. When Watson’s wife Mary passed away, leaving the beleaguered doctor only deeper in anguish, Mycroft’s self-control was strained even further. He cared for the man as his brother’s companion, and he felt he was personally causing him pain by withholding the knowledge he possessed. 

His one consolation was that when Sherlock did finally return to Baker Street, then the doctor would know all and have his friend back again. He may even forgive the brothers for their deception.

* * *

Dr. John Watson did not often come to visit Mycroft at the Diogenes Club, and on those rare instances when he did, it was his habit to send word ahead of himself to avoid the awkwardness of dropping in when Mycroft already had guests – not terribly probable – or would prefer a solitary day – a much more likely possibility. Given that it was a habit that had never before known an exception, Mycroft did not feel abashed that an unannounced visit from the doctor took him completely unawares. On a cursory look over his guest, he came to the swift conclusion that the visit was as impulsive as it was unexpected. Watson had about him a distracted air, as one who had come to a particular place, seeking a particular thing, but even he does not quite know what that thing is. In that instant of insight, Mycroft know how his brother must sometimes feel when he was confronted with clients who had a problem, but no clue at all as to how to solve it, or even how to properly articulate their need to an outside party, only knowing that here was a man they had been told could help them.

It did not take many minutes after the doctor’s arrival for Mycroft to fathom the general meaning of what Watson was seeking, his stumbling conversation and distracted fidgets telling him exactly what his words were edging around. 

“I understand that you have taken up residence in Baker Street once again,” Mycroft observed when Watson’s conversation seemed in jeopardy of grinding to a complete halt. “How is that for you, doctor? Are you able to live there and keep yourself in practice?”

“Oh, no,” he said, settling himself into the comfortable chair Mycroft kept for the rare guest. “I sold the practice in order to move back into my old rooms. I was quite surprised, actually, at how easy an enterprise it proved to be. Do you know I found a young man willing to pay the highest price I dared to ask for?”

“My word, that is a stroke of luck! Often one finds ones fortunes quite the opposite. Tell me, though, does my brother approve of your selling your practice to move back to Baker Street?”

“Approve?” Watson laughed a little incredulously. “He _insisted_ that I do so! Said that it wouldn’t do to have both of us living on our own when we knew from experience that we made agreeable lodgers, and when he still had the very rooms where we had once been so comfortable. I had little enough objection to the proposal, but I think that even if I had, your brother would have argued his case until I had given in.”

“Quite probably,” Mycroft agreed, chuckling along with the doctor. In truth he knew Watson’s guess to be spot on, Sherlock _would_ have argued until he had gotten his way, at least in this. In fact Mycroft already knew everything that Watson could tell him of moving back to Baker Street, having spoken more than once with Sherlock on the matter. He could have told the good doctor a few things that he was as yet unaware of, in fact. For one, that the buyer he had found for his practice was a relative of his and Sherlock’s, and the reason for his apparent generosity in the purchase was that Sherlock was the one who was really providing the funds. Not only was Sherlock insisting that his old flat mate return to his rooms, he was ensuring that there were no obstacles to his doing so. But he couldn’t do so openly and offer to buy out Watson’s practice directly, as the doctor’s own sensibilities would have him refuse. Still, he would find out about the blind eventually, and it would be an interesting day at 221B when he did. 

“But it does show, I think, how fond Sherlock has become of you,” he said with a smile still on his lips. “And of how much he has missed your company the past few years. We both know just how little use he has for people in general, so it says quite a lot when he goes out of his way to show so much… liking for a person. Wouldn’t you agree?”

For a moment the doctor gave this some thought. “Yes, I suppose it does,” he eventually replied. Then he smiled. “And somehow you seem to have cut to the heart of the matter I was unsure of myself. Living with your brother, you would think I would be accustomed to it by this time, but the powers you two possess continue to astound me. I doubt there is anything I could hope to conceal from either one of you.”

It was meant to sound like praise, like heartfelt admiration, but Mycroft saw what it was: a carefully veiled question, disguised as a leading statement.

Sherlock, for all his talents and his affection for Watson, continually underestimated the gentleman. Not only in his courage and his loyalty, which Mycroft had already tried discussing with him, but in the very matter of observation and deduction that he seemed bound and determined to institutionalize as a religion before he was through. Despite attempts made by the two Holmes brothers in their early years to train others in their skills, attempts that inevitably led to failure after failure and convinced them both that it was a hopeless endeavor, Sherlock had still made that attempt again with Watson. And not unsuccessfully. He was still far from the same level as either of the Holmes, but he had made significant, unheard of progress. That spoke for his determination and commitment, as well as Sherlock’s patience. 

But beyond that, Watson possessed his own certain style of observation. He was able to see deeply into people, to read their character and a degree of their temperament on very brief association. It was less scientific than Sherlock’s method, but no less useful in its way. If his vain brother could see beyond his own role in the chronicles Watson took time to pen, and paid some attention to the descriptions that he found so flowery and unnecessary, then he would find all the evidence he needed of _that_.

But his brother was something of a fool when it came to John Watson. As much as Watson, it would seem, was about Sherlock. 

Working hard to keep the smugness from his tone and expression, Mycroft answered the unspoken question. “Oh, I would have to disagree with you there, doctor. I would say that there is at least one thing that has been obvious to me for quite some time that has completely passed by my brother, to his detriment.” He paused, taking care not to look directly at Dr. Watson but watching his expression from the corner of his eye. “Not that I believe you have hidden this from him entirely consciously,” he continued, “but Sherlock has always had a kind of blind spot for this… sort of thing. And for you, if the truth be known.”

Watching the doctor surreptitiously, he smiled internally at the look of dawning, incredulous comprehension. He waited a moment before finishing his sideways revelations. “At the same time, to be perfectly fair, he seems to have kept something very much along the same lines hidden from you…”

When Dr. Watson left his rooms at the Diogenes Club half an hour later after some more aimless discussion, none of which left the least impression on the man, Mycroft was sure, he was very quiet and thoughtful. One might go so far as to say abashed. Mycroft had no doubt the next few days would see some significant changes at 221B Baker Street, but they were changes he felt were long since due. And even if Sherlock berated him for his ‘interference’ later, he couldn’t bring himself to really feel guilty about it.

Yes, it was a change that was long due and overdue. Sherlock could curse him for a meddler all he wanted, by the look on Watson’s face Mycroft doubted Sherlock would have much to complain of _other_ than Mycroft’s hand in the affair. 

It was ridiculous, though, how long the two of them had continued as they were. It was absurd how blind they had been to each other and themselves when they both commanded such powers of observation.

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline for Sherlock Holmes is always kind of hard to figure out, and I'll admit I used someone else's guide to figure out part of this. There's always a little bit of variation in guides, but what's here should be pretty close.


End file.
